


Stir-Fried Wesley

by asphaltcowgrrl



Category: Common Law
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltcowgrrl/pseuds/asphaltcowgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travis distracts Wes while he’s trying to cook dinner and ends up with some not so good results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stir-Fried Wesley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C8H7N3O2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/C8H7N3O2/gifts).



Setting the skillet on the burner, he lit the stove and left it on medium, just hot enough to warm the pan up.  Wes turned his attention back onto the onions, garlic, and ginger he was chopping.  Whistling, he turned back to the pan, checked the heat, and drizzled some olive oil into the bottom.  Twisting the pan from side to side, he coated the flat bottom with oil, ensuring that every inch was spoken for.  Satisfied that nothing was going to stick, he lifted the cutting board and slid the chopped mixture and pushed it into the pan. 

Wes pushed the first layer of flavors around the bottom of the pan, head cocking to the side when his phone chirped, letting him know he had a text message.  Making a face, Wes gave the onion mixture another stir and moved to get his phone from the counter where he’d left it. 

_What are you up to, blondie?_

Sighing, Wes shook his head and responded to Travis’ text. 

_Trying to make dinner.  Which I need to get back to, Travis._

Tucking his phone into his back pocket, Wes stirred his food again, lamenting the loss of his wok.  Alex had kept it when they’d split, citing the fact that he couldn’t stir fry in a hotel room.  A small grin touched the corners of his mouth when he realized how wrong she’d been.  While it might not be true stir fry, he was still feeding himself even in this hotel room. 

He took a chicken breast from the package and put it on the cutting board designated for meat only and packed the other three pieces up and stowed them in the freezer.  With careful cuts, he sliced the chicken into thin strips and then diced it.  Giving the onions a quick stir, he decided they’d sweated enough and added the chicken, stirring once and allowing the bottoms to brown. 

A happy sound from his back pocket alerted him to yet another text message.  Washing, and then drying his hands, Wes took the phone from its resting spot and read Travis’ reply.

_You can come hang with me and my foster brother, Paul._

_He’s a firefighter, remember him?  They’re going to BBQ, baby._

Wes rolled his eyes at his phone.  It was just like Travis to mooch food off anyone and everyone he could. 

_No thanks, Marks.  I’m happy with my dinner._

Giving the chicken a good stir, he saw a lovely brown on the bottoms of the chicken bits and nodded.  The sauce was next, he couldn’t forget the sauce.  It was by far the most important part of the meal.  Sesame oil, chili paste, more garlic and ginger, soy sauce, rice wine vinegar and a touch of mirin rounded out his usual recipe.  Giving it a good whirl with the whisk, he set it aside and stirred his chicken one last time. 

“For the love of God,” Wes snarled, tugging his ringing phone out of his pocket.  Putting it to his ear, he barked out a brisk, “Mitchell,” and waited.

“Damn, blondie, what’s got your panties in a twist tonight?” 

It was Travis, because of course it was.  “What do you want, Marks?  I’m about two minutes from finishing my dinner.”  Which wasn’t exactly accurate.  He had to add the sauce, then the udon noodles and those would take at least four minutes to cook, but Travis didn’t need to know that.  Did he?

“You’d really rather have whatever you’re making over some good old fashioned barbecue?  Kate was right, you’re not normal, man.”

He could hear Travis move the phone away from his face to answer someone talking in the background.  Wes waited a moment before drawing Travis back to the conversation he’d initiated.  “Look, I’m very happy with what I’m making for myself.”  That wasn’t a lie, either.  He’d developed quite a fondness for Dan Dan noodles in all their variations since becoming single.  Making his own was just icing on the cake – or whatever.  Stepping out of the kitchen, he walked into the living room, pacing now.  “And I don’t need you making me feel guilty for not wanting to mooch off your foster brother and his firefighter pals, okay?”

“You can be such a stick in the mud, Wes.”  Travis was laughing now and it was beginning to infuriate Wes.  “Paul said he’d take us for a ride in the engine later.  He’d even light up the lights. And –"

Wait.  What was that?  It wasn’t chicken or onion or garlic or – shit.  It was smoke.  “Travis, I’ve gotta go.”  He ended the call and tossed his phone on the couch, running back into the kitchen. 

The entire small area was swarming with thick, white smoldering puffs of air.  Jogging out of the kitchen, Wes reached for his phone again when the smoke detector went off, cuing the in-celling fire sprinklers.    Just freaking great.  Turning his eyes towards the heavens, his face soaked with water from above, he blinked. 

“Why the hell are you even going off?”  Wes blinked at the ceiling again, shaking his head.  “There’s not even a fire you idiotic system.”  Which reminded him…

Wes bolted back into the kitchen and turned off the burner, moving the skillet off the hot burner and onto a cool one.  Mentally retracing his steps, he couldn’t pinpoint his misstep.  He hadn’t left anything alone for long and sesame oil has a high smoke point so.

Sesame oil.

That was where he’d gone wrong.  He’d grabbed the olive oil and not the sesame.  This is what he got for being such a stickler for only using extra virgin olive oil and not caving and buying the cheaper, more refined stuff.  As much as he wanted to blame it all on Travis, in this case, it wasn’t Marks’ fault. 

Well, maybe it was a little.  Travis had called him, hadn’t he?  And that phone call is what dragged him out of the kitchen long enough for his dinner to turn into something resembling a show on the Las Vegas Strip.  He looked into his ruined pan, frowned at his charred chicken and onions swimming in runoff from the sprinkler system and wished he could forget this ever happened. 

On the bright side, he now had an excuse to buy himself a wok. 

By some miracle, the fire sprinklers shut off and he was left dripping in the kitchen, pondering what to do with his life.  A knock on the door, followed by a loud, insistent pounding brought him out of his stupor.  Double-timing it to the front door, Wes made it approximately halfway through the living room when the door burst open, two firefighters and hotel management pushing into the drenched room. 

“Where is he,” a familiar voice shouted from behind the wall of firemen swarming into his hotel room.  “Wes man, where are you?”

Wes watched Travis push through the group of firemen here in an official capacity, searching and destroying any incendiary they found.  Which was none because he’d only burnt his food and not tried to set the hotel on fire, but they didn’t know that until they’d fully checked it all out.  When Travis’ eyes finally found Wes in all the gloom and murk lingering from the incinerated meal, he saw relief flood his partner’s very being. 

“There you are,” Travis shouted, storming over to Wes’ side.  “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?  I know you heard me, blondie.”

Not knowing how to answer that, Wes just shrugged. 

“Good god, do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Travis shook his head and plopped onto the couch cushion beside Wes.  “I was eating the best  - and man, I mean best – pulled pork sandwich at the fire station when the call came in.  I heard the dispatcher call out your address and I was like, ‘Man, that’s Wes’ hotel.  We’ve got to go now.  Dumbass probably set his curtains on fire or something.’” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Marks,” Wes grumbled.  But secretly, he was pleased Travis had been worried about him.  For his safety.  Or, maybe he just wanted to ride in a fire engine traveling Code 3 down a busy L. A. freeway?  With Travis, it was often hard to discern his motives.  “But thank you for coming, even if it was just to see the carnage I left behind me.”

Travis grinned and gave Wes’ shoulder a rough shake.  “Only came to make sure my partner was okay.  I’d hate to have to break in a new one.  Man, you’ve been rough, but I think I’ve finally got you where I like you.”

Ah, yes, he did, but Wes refused to admit to that much.  “Gee, thanks again, Travis.”

A stocky, good-looking firefighter exited the kitchen and tipped his chin at Travis.  “You ready to go back and finish that sandwich, T?”

“You better believe it, Paulie,” Travis replied.  “Oh, you remember my partner, right?  Wes?”

Paul turned a pair of amazing chocolate colored eyes on Wes and nodded.  “It’s been awhile, but I remember.  What were you trying to do in that tiny wannabe kitchen anyway?”

“Make some dinner,” Wes said, a little put out at Paul’s tone.  “If your foster brother had left me alone after the first time I said ‘no thank you’, I wouldn’t have burnt anything.  And not to be difficult, but I think this hotel’s fire sprinkler system is a bit touchy.  I didn’t even start a fire and they drenched me.”

Hiding a grin, Paul said he’d check into it.  “Train leaves in five, Marks.  Be there or find your own way home.”

“Got it, Paulie,” Travis replied.  “You sure you’re okay?  Want to come back with us?”

The very thought horrified Wes.  “I’m fine, Travis.  Really.  Go back to your pulled pork.”

Travis tilted his head and studied Wes for a long moment.  “You want me to stay?  Help you clean up or something?”

He shook his head.  “Management said they’d put me in another room until they could dry everything out in here.  I think the bedroom was spared so I should be fine.”

Marks gave Wes another long look before he nodded.  “Okay.  I’ll see you in the morning then.  No more false alarms, Wes.  My poor heart can only take so many scares.”

This time Wes really did smile.  It wasn’t often that Travis admitted to being fallible, so he reveled in it when he could.  “Tomorrow, eight o’clock, and not a moment later.  You be on time, Marks.  I’m the one with the trashed home, not you.” 

“Eight on the dot, got it, man.”

They both pretended like Travis would be on time, although they both knew he wouldn’t.  He never was.  But at least he’d never had the fire department arrive because he’d burned his damned dinner.  Point for Travis. 

**Author's Note:**

> Two things. 1) Yes, I was hungry and craving stir fry when I wrote this. 2) I don't think that a little overheated olive oil would cause this much chaos, but eh, that's why this is fiction. Besides, I'd like to think that I'm a better cook than this so I can't speak from experience. But I still love you, Wes. Burnt chicken and all.


End file.
